I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ;—
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer ?—With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds ?-Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the blooms of Summer ?-In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,-the green prime,-
The many, many leaves all twinkling ?—Three
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling, and one upon the old oak tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality ?-
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main ;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, grey upon the grey.
O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfal of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care ;-
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,-and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died,-whose doom
Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light;-
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
A LAKE and a fairy boat
To sail in the moonlight clear,-
And merrily we would float
From the dragons that watch us here!
Thy gown should be snow-white silk,
And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipp'd in milk,
Should twine with thy raven curls!
Red rubies should deck thy hands,
And diamonds should be thy dow'r-
But Fairies have broke their wands,
And wishing has lost its pow'r!
SPRING it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he 's forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?
Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by; Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey,
What can an old man do but die ?
June it was jolly,
O for its folly!
A dancing leg and a laughing eye;
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly,
What can an old man do but die ?
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